My Heart is Fine
by JacksBoonie
Summary: ...But what if it isn't? What if Neal is hiding something? And has been for years? What if the life of the talented art thief is about to come to an abrupt end? What if it just isn't fair?
1. Chapter 1

AN: Haza! First _White Collar _fic. Based on tonight's episode, "Forging Bonds" (S02,E11). Don't think there are any spoilers (except for the title). Just thought I'd put this out there and see where it takes me. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own the television series _White Collar_. I do not own the characters of the television series _White Collar_.

My Heart is Fine

"You've been lying to me."

Neal laughs, the sound more of a wheeze than anything. The cannula tubes wrapped behind his ears and pumping oxygen up through his nostrils press harshly against his pale skin. His eyes are half-lidded, his lips and fingertips tinted an unhealthy blue. "You'll have to be . . . more specific."

Peter frowns, shifts in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside the hospital bed, and looks down at his tightly clasped hands. The young man can't speak without taking a breath every few words. It's unsettling, considering how well he seemed mere hours ago—how well he's seemed for _years_.

"Pete?" Neal asks tentatively, breathing deep.

No one calls the FBI agent that. Not even Elizabeth. Peter doubts that Neal even meant to. Shorter words, shorter names, seem easier for the former art thief at the moment.

"You should have told me. About...this." Peter awkwardly gestures to the hospital room, as if it is to blame for what has happened, for what _will _happen.

"Oh, it didn't...seem pertinent." Neal attempts a smile, but it comes across as a grimace.

Okay, screw the _shorter words_ theory. The young man is just trying to screw with him. "This isn't funny, Neal," the agent reprimands. "You're sick."

"That so?" The young man's eyebrows rise high on his forehead, the skin below his hairline creasing. "Thought this...was a vacation." He wiggles his tracker-free ankle for emphasis. "Feels good...Just need...a sunny beach...a cold drink...a pretty girl..."

Peter sighs and rubs a hand down his face. "How long has this been going on?"

"The beach fantasy?" Neal asks, coughing harshly and closing his eyes against the pain that erupts in his chest. "Long...long time."

"Stop it," Peter demands curtly, standing abruptly and pacing in front of the hospital bed. "Neal, you need to stop screwing around and tell me what the hell has been going on." His shoulders hunch, his jaw muscles ripple, his knuckles whiten as he curls his fingers into his palms. "How did you keep this from us?"

"No hospitals means...no medical records," Neal explains simply.

But Peter shakes his head. "You were arrested. You were taken to jail. All inmates are required to have a physical upon entry to a penal facility." He's in _Special Agent Peter Burke_ mode, talking like an employer, like the man who has had to keep tabs on Neal's every move for the past eight years, rather than the friend he has become over the last two.

"Prison health records..." Neal says tiredly, his eyebrows drawing together, "...are easy to misplace." He shakes his head when Peter stops at the foot of his bed and grips the plastic guard. "I don't exist, Peter...I try to...make it a habit."

The agent swallows hard and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "So you aren't even on any transplant lists? No medication? No treatment at all?" Neal shakes his head slowly, and Peter curses under his breath. "How long have you known about this? About your heart?"

The young man has to think a moment—not a comforting sign. "Too long, I think," he replies absently. "Thought I'd be...dead by now."

Peter returns to the plastic chair, his lower back protesting immediately. "Does..." He falters, shakes his head, grinds his teeth. "Does _anyone_ know about this?"

Neal breathes carefully for a good ten seconds before he opens his mouth. But his attention is drawn to the door, where an awkward figure stands, one foot inside the room and the other indecisive one in the hallway. "Mozzie," Neal whispers, and Peter turns.

"You," the agent says, his tone accusing as he stands again and whirls on the conman. "You knew about this?"

Mozzie looks back into the hallway longingly, knowing that if he runs, Peter will only chase him. And with the number of suits lining the waiting room walls, it will be rather difficult to dodge the agent. Not knowing what else to do, he shrugs and fiddles with the strap of his messenger bag. "Well...Yeah, sure. I knew."

"He told you?" Peter points to Neal, the sick man watching the two of them with mild interest—but mostly with exhaustion.

"No, not...outright." Mozzie, again, glances into the hallway, his wayward foot retreating fully into the hospital room in defeat.

"Then you figured it out for yourself?" the other man asks incredulously, shaking his head and scoffing.

"Yes," the conman replies indignantly, straightening just enough to puff out his chest. "It's kind of hard to miss the signs when you've read as many medical journals as I have."

_Thank God he doesn't quote them_, Peter thought. "One of you needs to start talking. And since it very obviously can't be _you—"_ The agent jabs a finger in Neal's direction, cutting the young man short of protesting. "—Mozzie had better-well have a damn good reason for keeping this from me."

Neal looks at his fellow conman imploringly, having only enough energy to shake his from side to side twice. Mozzie looks torn. Under normal circumstances, Neal would take precedence—especially over a _suit_. But Neal is sick, and the suit, however annoyingly upfront about the situation, seems to have good intentions.

With a sigh, Mozzie frowns at the floor tiles and says, "Sorry, Neal." He looks to Peter with a firm confidence—mainly so he won't have to see Neal's hurt and betrayed expression. "Sit down, _Suit_. This may take a while."

AN: Later, Gators! Catch you on the flip side.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: *waves meekly* Hello! I am...alive. I promise. I've been working on several different projects, so I do apologize that this fic seemed to slip through the cracks. But I do have a plan for it. There should be one (two?) more chapter(s?). We'll have to see where this takes me... :) I hope you enjoy this chapter! And I really will get the next chapter out as soon as I possibly can. Really, really! Thank you for all your reviews, and even just for reading.

My Heart is Fine

Chapter Two:

_8 years ago_

Mozzie does not like Neal's apartment. It's too easy to find, too easy to get into. And it could definitely use a little culture. However, for all it's faults, it is possibly the..._homiest_ place he's ever known, and Neal loves it for all the world.

So when the young con artist does not show up to their appointed meeting, it is reasonable to suspect that this is where he will be.

Which he is.

What worries Mozzie as he approaches the door to Neal's apartment is the hushed, angry voice he hears _behind_ said door. It is obviously Neal's, and judging by the lack of response, the young man is either on the phone (highly plausible, Mozzie thinks) or he is talking to himself (a less likely scenario...but one that Mozzie takes into account nonetheless). He doesn't _mean _to eavesdrop, and normally where friends are concerned he wouldn't, but the words that filter through the not-so-thick door cause him to stop in his tracks, his fist poised to knock but holding its position mere inches from the apartment's entrance.

"I'm telling you, this isn't going to work for much longer," Neal's hushed voice spits in a tone that Mozzie does not hear very often. "They're going to find out, and when they do—" Here, Neal coughs violently, then there is the scraping sound of what Mozzie assumes is a chair against the wooden floor as the young art thief sits and catches his breath. A distant, crackling voice echoes from the room. "I'm...fine."

_Phone, then, _Mozzie thinks to himself.

Neal sighs, and the chair creaks. "You have to be careful. This isn't like when we were kids. People are going to get hurt."

_What people? What kids? Does Neal have childhood contacts? That's dangerous...Past connections shouldn't date back more than a few years, unless..._

"Yeah, I'll see you later tonight. The usual place...I know. I'll make sure no one follows. Stop being so paranoid." A click, and Mozzie guesses that the conversation has been ended. Is it safe to knock? Will Neal know he's been eavesdropping if he knocks too soon? But what if he's found lurking outside his doorstep for too long? Is there proper etiquette for these types of situations? He should consider writing an anonymous letter to _Dear Abbie..._

"I can hear you breathing through the door, Moz," Neal's voice says, uncomfortably close to the apartment door. How long has he been standing on the other side, probably watching him through the peephole? "You may as well come in."

Mozzie clears his throat and waits for the lock on the door to slide out of place before letting himself in and re-locking it.

Neal is walking towards a small table in the center of the room, a bottle of water opened and half-empty on its varnished surface. "How much did you hear?" The art thief seats himself, still turned away from the door as his long, thin fingers trace the lines of the water bottle.

Mozzie frowns at this. He's noticed, more recently than any other time, that Neal seems to have split himself into different personalities. This personality, the one that drinks water instead of wine, that has a harshness to his tone and his demeanor rather than a wide-eyed innocent look about him, that sees the world for what it is rather than what it could be, is not the one that Mozzie first met. The Neal that Mozzie remembers from the olden days is vibrant, radiant, as spectacular and flawless as the art he steals.

This is not that Neal.

He could lie—he _should _lie—but he can't. And when he says, "Something isn't going to work for much longer...and everything after that," Neal's shoulders slump. Whether from relief or defeat, Mozzie isn't quite sure. But if _this _Neal so much as gives him the stink-eye, he is _so _gone. He knows that normal Neal would never hurt him, not even if his life depended on it. But _this _Neal, the one he doesn't quite trust...scares him.

Mozzie sucks in a breath and squares his not-so-square shoulders. "Who were you on the phone with?" he asks, pleased to find that his voice does not waver. Neal looks to the side, and the older man glimpses the hollowness of the art thief's cheek and eye, the pinched, _pained _look of his face, the darkened tint of his lips. He doesn't answer, and Mozzie decides he won't be getting anything from him about the subject, so he continues. "You weren't at the restaurant."

There is a pause before the younger man answers. "Right. Sorry, I...had to take care of some business."

"Neal, this _is _business. This is the grand finale of the job you've been planning for _months_. How could you not be there?"

"Why couldn't we meet here?"

The question throws Mozzie off, so much so that he actually takes a step backward. They've never met at the apartment for a job discussion. Neal knows how sensitive Mozzie is towards using the same meeting place twice. And a place that they _frequent_, for Christ's sake? Neal should know better...

But this is not Neal. Not the Neal that Mozzie knows, anyway.

"Nevermind," he murmurs, taking another step back so that his fingertips brush the wood of the door. "I guess we can talk another time." He turns, ready to make a hasty retreat.

"Moz," Neal calls in that tone that just _isn't Neal_. But Mozzie stops and turns cautiously to find the other man staring right at him, a sincerely apologetic look on his face. "I really am sorry."

The older con purses his lips, swallowing hard and nodding before averting his gaze and undoing the lock on the door. "Yeah, I know." And then he makes his escape.

Something is not right.

0 o 0 o 0

Mozzie follows him.

_Of course _Mozzie follows him. Why wouldn't he? And unless Neal is off his game or the young art thief is _really _as sick as he had appeared back in the apartment, Mozzie has yet to be spotted.

_Or is Neal allowing himself to be followed?_ Mozzie falters at this thought, nearly losing sight of the young man and exposing himself at the same time.

He hurries along the rain-slicked sidewalk, keeping a good thirty yards between them and only able to catch glimpses of Neal when the younger thief passes under street lights. He stops at a corner when Neal buys a hotdog from a street-side vendor, then frowns when Neal throws the uneaten hotdog away two blocks later. He does this with a few other vendors, tossing away a sesame seed bagel, a medium Cherry Coke, and then a perfectly decent vanilla ice cream cone.

Mozzie is half-tempted to stop at one of the vendors and get something to eat himself (he hadn't eaten at the restaurant, and his blood sugar is getting low with all this weaving around the city) when he suddenly loses sight of Neal. He stops walking, waiting for the young man to reappear from the dark under the next street light as he has every time up until now.

Neal does not reappear. Mozzie starts to panic.

"Moz?" The voice from behind startles him, and he spins around, his satchel swinging around wildly with him.

"Neal!" he says in surprise, finding the art thief standing in the path he'd come from. "What—" He looks Neal up and down. His coat has changed. He's wearing slacks—_hadn't he been wearing jeans? _His shoes are nice, not anything like the sneakers Mozzie had seen him in earlier. Even his hair is styled differently. How did he change so—

"Neal." The voice from behind startles him, and he spins around...again, finding the art thief...again.

"Neal?" he asks breathlessly, turning back and forth between them and feeling more paranoid and schizophrenic than ever before.

Since when are there _two _Neal Caffreys?

0 o 0 o 0

_present day_

"_Two _Neal Caffreys?" Peter repeats incredulously, looking down at the man in the hospital bed and then back at Mozzie.

Mozzie opens his mouth to speak, but someone from the hospital room entrance beats him to it.

"No, just one."

Peter's gaze swivels between the man standing across the room and the man in the bed before he looks back to Mozzie with confusion and utter disbelief. "Is this how you feel all the time?"

The other man dons a thoughtful expression before conceding with a shrug and a nod.

_Two Neal Caffreys. There are _two _of them. As if _one _isn't bad enough...How in the hell..._

Huffing, the FBI agent shakes his head as understanding begins to settle on his addled mind. "Twins," he says, looking between the identical men again. "You're twins."

The Neal by the door steps further into the room, slowly making his way to his brother's bedside and tentatively taking the man's hand in his own. "Yes," he states simply, and it sounds so much like Neal...So much like the _real _Neal...But how is he supposed to tell? A minute ago, Peter thought the _other _man was the real one.

The Neal in the bed wheezes in an attempted chuckle and shakes his head. "Not too...quick on the...uptake, is he?"

Peter can't help but stare. So alike, these two—except for the sickly disposition of the man in the bed, of course. But how long have these two been pulling this off? Been posing as one another? _Have _they been posing as one another? And how? Why?

Amidst these questions, one inquiry wriggles its way to the surface, and Peter is asking it before he can stop himself.

"Which one of you is the real Neal Caffrey?"

AN: Dun dun dun... Later, gators! Catch you on the flip side! *feels evil* :3


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Story. Y u no update sooner? Yeah, that...was my bad. I'm sorry, everyone. Things have been wicked lately. But hopefully I can get on the ball with this thing.

Enjoy this next chapter! Sorry about any mistakes. It's late. I'll go through it tomorrow...

My Heart is Fine

Chapter Three:

"My name..." the Neal in the bed starts, taking a deep breath and turning to look at Peter with dull eyes and an even duller expression, "...is Nathan."

"Nathan," Peter repeats quietly, looking to the other twin with skepticism and uncertainty. "And Neal."

Neal closes his eyes and sighs, his fingers tightening around his brother's before he looks up at the FBI agent and nods. "Yeah," he says resignedly.

The FBI agent rubs a hand down the length of his face and turns away from them for a moment. "Two Caffreys," he mutters with a shake of his head before turning back. "Okay. It...makes sense, I guess."

Mozzie gives the man a guarded look, narrowing his eyes and saying, "You sure about that, Suit?"

Peter gives the question some actual thought—a good thirty seconds worth, with only the beeping and whooshing of monitors to fill the silence.

"No," he admits finally. "But...yes." He sighs. "I don't know. Someone explain this to me, please?"

"What do you want to know?" Neal asks, absently straightening his brother's hospital-issue blanket.

Peter bites the inside of his cheek. _A__lot_, he thinks. _A __whole __hell __of __a __lot __that __I'm __not __sure __I __want __to __hear __about. _Really, though—what can he ask that won't beg more questions? Questions he's sure he doesn't want answers to...because everything he though he knew about Neal Caffrey just went straight out the metaphorical forty-three-story window and is very quickly making its way towards a rather sticky ending...

But how long is this going to last? Neal being cooperative, that is? Right now the young art thief is broken, vulnerable, and Peter is almost certain that Neal would be as honest with him now as he was the day he was dosed with that truth serum.

Taking in a deep breath and holding it a moment before letting it loose in a harsh gust, Peter seats himself again, arms resting against his thighs as he leans forward. "The beginning," he says softly, watching Nathan's eyes begin to droop. "Start from there."

0 o 0 o 0

_The Story of Two Caffreys:_

_Nathan and Neal have no past to speak of, mainly because anything worth saying about them is somewhat...boring. Two loving parents, a happy home, a family with no worries and nothing to consider except for the future._

_They spend their lives distinguishing themselves, so that, no matter what, the difference between them can be seen:_

_Nathan is a writer, his words a true form of art...when he's not drunk or getting high._

_When he's young, he likes sports (soccer, mostly), climbing trees (the old sycamore in the front yard), and throwing bugs at girls (especially Lizzie from next door, because Lizzie is gross and has cooties). _

_When he's a teenager, he likes motorcycles (a 1938 BMW R51, specifically), dining and ditching (the diner down the street hasn't caught on to him yet), and checking out girls at the movie theater (especially Hannah from church, because Hannah is a blonde and has breasts the size of cantaloupes). _

_And when he's a college student, he likes bar-hopping (Thursdays, mainly), delivering pizza (because a job in college shows responsibility...and free pizza is always a plus), and fucking college girls (especially sorority girls, because sorority girls are hot and easy to get drunk)._

_Neil is a painter, his canvas a multitude of possibilities beyond imagine...when he's not bailing his brother out of trouble. _

_When he's young, he likes animals (dogs, mostly), making forts in his bedroom (the bunkbed works the best), and cooking (especially with their mother, because their mother is amazing and knows a million-billion recipes). _

_When he's a teenager, he likes movies (old black-and-whites, specifically), playing the viola (the orchestra at school wins nationals every year), and painting (especially beside their mother, because their mother is a brilliant artist and shows him techniques that only a few painters in the world know)._

_And when he's a college student, he likes classes (art history, mainly), working at the local coffee house (because he meets the best people there...and free coffee is always a plus), and writing letters (especially to their mother, because their mother always writes the longest letters in return and sends care packages with them). _

_Before their twentieth birthday, both Caffrey boys are already known to a small part of the world—Nathan as an accomplished novelist and Neil as an artist of noble compliment. _

_And before their twenty-first birthday..._

_...they are gone._

0 o 0 o 0

"Pseudonyms," Neal answers before Peter can ask. "Nathan wrote under a false name, and I painted under one. You won't find anything about that in our files."

Peter nods slowly, processing what he's been told so far. "So, what do you mean by 'gone'?"

Neal opens his mouth to speak, but Nathan takes a deep, labored breath.

"We left," he says simply.

0 o 0 o 0

"_We can't just leave," Neal argues incredulously, closing the suitcase that his brother is continuously filling with clothing from their dorm room closet. _

"_Yes, we can," Nathan counters, throwing the suitcase open again and tossing in a pile of wrinkled shirts—his, of course. Neal would never stand for such an un-starched mess. "And we are. Get your things together, Neal."_

"_I don't understand, Nathan. What...Why..."_

"_Your paintings." Nathan grabbed a cardboard box from the floor and swept his arm across the desk beside his bed, various items clunking into it with little care. "I sold them."_

_Neal stands very still for a moment, swallowing hard and shaking his head. "My...paintings? The ones from the campus gallery?"_

"_Yes."_

"_But they were stolen."_

_Nathan rolls his eyes, taking the drawer out of his night stand and up-ending it into the box as well. "Yes, genius brother of mine. They were stolen."_

_Understanding dawns quickly on Neal's face, and Nathan is glad he doesn't have to do much more explaining about his brother's artwork. He continues to scramble around as Neal turns away from him, pacing their small dorm room and running his fingers through his hair. _

"_You __stole __them,__" __he __mutters __absently.__ "__You _stole _my __paintings. __And __you...you _sold _them?__" __Neal __turns __back __to __his __brother __with __a __disgusted __look.__ "__You _sold my paintings_?__"_

"_You can make more," Nathan assures him, pulling out Neal's suitcase and beginning to empty the other man's side of the closet. "Which means we can make more money."_

"_Nathan, those...those were re-creations of Monet! Of-Of-Of Botticelli and Rembrandt!" Neal rattles off the names as if he knows the long-gone artists personally, has sat down to tea with them every afternoon for years. And he has, really—he's studied them, absorbed their patterns and soaked in their brush strokes like an art-empath. He can channel Vermeer at the drop of a hat, paint like Renoir without a second's hesitation. _

_Nathan can see the talent shuttling behind his brother's eyes, switching tracks from one artist to the next and back against in an instant. Neal is better than pointless classes and monotone professors and small, college-town degrees. He deserves so much more. _

"_And the buyers were stupid enough to believe they're the real thing," Nathan continues with a quirk of one eyebrow, tossing what few belongings Neal has left into the suitcase, slamming it closed, and leaning on it. _

"_Are you insane? They'll have them checked! They'll find out they're fakes, and we'll be arrested! Nathan, what the hell were you—" _

_Nathan advances on his brother, shaking his head and grabbing hold of the other man's shoulders. "They're small-town buyers, Neal. They can't afford to have things checked. Underneath it all, they don't care. They just want something to hang in their galleries that they can boast about over cheap food and cheaper wine. And we—" He fishes into his pocket for a thin piece of paper, a check that he waves in front of his brother's face. "—we come out the victors, here. We can take this and do whatever we want with it. We can go anywhere."_

"_But..." Neal looks around the emptied room helplessly. "But we graduate in a week!"_

"_Why do we need a piece of paper to tell us who we can and can't be? Neal...Please. Please, let's just go. Let's just leave and—"_

"_What about Mom?"_

_The question throws Nathan off, and he takes a step back, his face contorting for a micro-second into pain...anguish. _

_And Neal sees it._

"_What...What about Mom?" Neal asks shakily_

_Nathan shakes his head. "Neal..."_

"_How long...How long..." There are tears in Neal's eyes, and Nathan's heart is breaking. But he has a plan. And they have to leave, or everything will be ruined. _

"_Two days ago," Nathan says huskily. "The hospital called. There were complications."_

"_Complications?__" __Neal __huffs, __tears __falling __as __he __laughs __hysterically.__ "__Two __days, __and __you __haven't __said __anything? __Our __mother __has __been _dead _for _two days_, __and __you _didn't. Say. Anything_?__"_

_Nathan expects the punch. But he's surprised at how much force is behind it—Neal has never been the strongest of the two boys. He's knocked into the bed, over the suitcase, and onto the floor, the breath forced from his lungs in a sudden liquid-like gush. _

_Lying still, his shoulders squashed awkwardly between the desk and the bed frame, he tries to bring his vision back into focus. _

"_Nathan?" Neal's voice is small, shaky, and his footsteps are stuttered and sloppy as he makes his way to his brother. "Nate..."_

_Nathan's lips are tinged with blue. He grasps weakly at the mattress, pulling himself up enough to lean against the desk and stare at his brother with waning annoyance. _

"_You...asshole."_

"_Shit, Nate!" Neal leans down beside him quickly, hands fluttering uselessly over his brother's fallen form. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! Where—" Looking around frantically, he stands and shuffles through the box on Nathan's bed. "Where are your pills?"_

"_Just get me...up." Nathan grabs Neal's pant leg and tugs continuously until the other man finally leans back down with a pill bottle and a bottle of water. _

"_Here. Take these."_

"_We don't have time for—" _

"_Take them and I'll go." Neal cuts him off abruptly, shoving the items into his hands and twisting his long limbs until he's sitting beside him._

_Nathan frowns but does as he's told. "You'll...wrinkle your slacks," he points out, wiping his mouth and resting his arms on his bent knees. _

_Neal rubs roughly at his face, sighing and sniffling. "Drink that whole thing." Nathan takes another sip and sets the water aside, making Neal shake his head. "You could have told me."_

"_You're my...younger brother."_

"_By five minutes."_

"_I'm supposed to...take care of you."_

_Neal turns his head to watch the other man closely, seeing the paleness in his face, the hitch in his breathing. "What do we do now?"_

_Nathan's head lolls until he is looking at his brother, staring at a mirror image of himself...a mirror image he has stared at his entire life. They could be so much more..._

"_We leave...Together."_

0 o 0 o 0

"How long has he been sick?" Peter asks, glancing at Nathan's sleeping form.

"Since we were kids," Neal replies quietly, deft fingers brushing sweaty bangs away from his brother's face. "Our mother...died of the same condition."

"And afterward?"

Neal shakes his head and breathes out slowly. "I need some coffee." Standing, he makes his way towards the door, turning when he gets there and placing one hand on the frame. "Coming?"

The FBI agent hesitates for only a moment, giving Mozzie a careful look before standing and following the other man out of the hospital room.

AN: Holy crap...Where is this story going? I have a bad feeling...


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Wow. I found the series on Netflix and have been watching it non-stop for a while. An awesome show, but I've been finding holes in my fic because of it. I did my best to fix them, so if you find any more, please let me know.

And I must say, I had absolutely no idea where this was going after the first chapter. Everyone has been so adamant about both Caffreys living, I just didn't know what to do! Thankfully, I had a chat with a very good friend, and things seem to be working out just fine now. :) This should be the second-to-last chapter, if all goes well.

Enjoy, my friends!

My Heart is Fine

Chapter Four:

Neal clutches his crappy cup of cafeteria coffee like a lifeline, staring into its murky contents. Peter sits across from him, a patient look painted on his face as he wonders how much longer he has before Neal starts to speak, or if he expects Peter to start asking questions.

"Peter—"

"How often did you switch?" the FBI agent interrupts, and the worry lines etched into Neal's face fade just a fraction. A distraction. Good. Peter can see that he needs one, needs an escape from the sickness and the hospital.

Neal drums his fingers against the styrofoam and watches the liquid within jump and spatter the insides. "Not often. It was exhausting. Too much work."

"What about the anklet?" This is what has been bothering Peter the most. There is no way—absolutely no way—to get around it. Especially the new model. Even two Caffreys couldn't possibly... How...?

"What about it?" Neal's words are quiet, but Peter can see the shine in his eyes, the quirk of his mouth. If the art thief could put his initials on this moment, by God, Peter would be staring back at him with a big old "N.C." on his forehead.

"You can't tell me you figured out how to take it off..."

Neal smiles, though it's tight and makes him look tired more than anything. "No," he admits. "Nathan and I rigged a second anklet."

"A _second _anklet?"

"He's good at what he does," the art forger says with a shrug. "And being cooped up in the house all day gives him time to think of things."

"Does June know about him?"

"Do you think there's anything that goes on in June's house that she doesn't know about?"

Point taken. Peter sighs and presses onward. At least he's getting information. "How does it work? The second anklet?"

Neal sucks his cheeks inward, creating a similar hollowed image of his brother. The FBI agent can practically _see_ the debate going on his the younger man's head. He's still not ready to give all his secrets away just yet. "It switches on when mine turns off."

"How do you—"

"You can ask Mozzie about that." Neal takes a sip of his coffee, grimaces, and sets the cup aside. "Is that how you found Nathan? His anklet was switched on?"

"No," Peter says, then purses his lips. "Well, yes. But only after we received a call about a _Neal __Caffrey_ being admitted to the hospital."

Neal's nose scrunches, and he offers a half-smile. "The FBI gets a call when I'm in the hospital?"

"Touching, isn't it?"

"Except for the stalker factor."

The agent chuckles. "Anywhere in the United States," he explains. "And a few provinces in Canada."

"I must be important enough, then."

_He's fishing for a confession that you give a shit. Change the subject..._

Clearing his throat, Peter wracks his brain to keep on track with what is feeling less and less like the interrogation it started out to be. "You said you never set foot on a college campus as a student,"

"I said that, huh?" Neal strings his fingers together anxiously.

"You also said you didn't graduate from high school," Peter accuses, his inner alert system perking up as the young art thief gives him a pointed look. Sitting back in the cafeteria chair, the agent shakes his head and rubs at his throbbing temple. "It was Nathan?"

"Yeah."

Peter's eyebrows draw together. "Really?"

Neal nods stiffly and looks back down at his wringing hands. "Yeah."

"Neal..." He doesn't want to say it. He probably shouldn't say it. But now the other man is staring at him expectantly, blue eyes wide and shining and Peter just can't handle that. "He looked...That was only _months_ ago. It's gotten this bad so fast?"

"He doesn't...There isn't much time," Neal states absently. He's distancing himself. Peter can see it in the way his shoulders slump, the way his fingers move slowly around the rim of the coffee cup. Nathan doesn't have long. And neither does Neal. "He came here to die, Peter. He wants me to leave, to say goodbye."

The FBI agent swallows hard and takes a sharp, shallow breath. "Maybe you should."

Neal's head snaps up. "What?"

Peter raises a hand to stave off the other man's argument. "It doesn't look like there's much of a choice here, Neal." The art thief's fingers grip the coffee cup a bit tighter. "His heart is failing, and there's no way we can get him a new one."

"You're the FBI."

"That's right," the agent confirms with a slow nod of his head. "We're the FBI. We don't have jurisdiction over who gets a heart and who doesn't. If he's not even on a list—"

"We can _get_ him on a list," Neal insists, suddenly angry. He slams a fist on the table, attracting the attention of what few people are sitting in the dismal cafeteria. "We can make our own damn list."

"Think about what you're saying, Neal," Peter says firmly. "You're talking about taking a heart away from someone else who needs it."

"_Nathan _needs it."

"He's not the only person."

"He's the only person who matters."

"To you."

"_Yes, __to __me!_" Neal shouts, standing violently enough to make his chair fall backwards and his coffee cup tumble sideways. "_He __is __the __only __person __in __this __world __that __matters __to __me!_"

Peter ignores the slight sting that the words cause and stands from his chair to escape the steaming liquid water-falling over the table. "Neal—"

"Don't, Peter." Neal holds up a hand and steps back, looking at Peter with all the hurt in the world. The agent has never seen that in Neal's eyes. Not even over Kate's death. "Just...don't."

With a frown, Peter nods, holding up his hands in a surrendering gesture as Neal turns and walks out of the cafeteria. A cafeteria worker appears with several paper towels and a tight smile, beginning to clean the mess as Peter steps away.

"Sorry," he murmurs, fishing into his pocket for his phone and pressing the speed dial for Jones' number. "Jones," he says when the other picks up. "I think Neal is headed your way...Yeah, it's a long story. I'll get you all up to speed soon. Just...let him go."

0 o 0 o 0

Nathan is awake when Peter enters the hospital room, the agent awkwardly finding a place at the end of the bed and shoving his hands into his pockets as he looks around.

"Mozzie gone?"

The other man nods, blinking slowly. "Neal gone?"

Peter swallows then nods. It is much harder to talk to this man, the Neal-imposter—even given the fact that they have probably met at least once or twice. He tries to think back, to remember if there were any differences in Neal that could have tipped him off.

He can't. It seems the Caffrey twins' con had been flawless.

"Don't think...too long on it, Peter," Nathan whispers.

Even the way he says the agent's name...It's Neal.

Peter smiles thinly and shakes his head. "It's my job to think. It's how I caught you."

"It's how you caught _him_," the other man corrects, shifting on the bed and gesturing to the chair beside him. Peter hesitates for only a second before making his way to the chair and collapsing tiredly into it. "Neal is smart," Nathan continues, taking a labored breath through the nasal cannula. "But he lets his heart...cloud his judgment."

A frown twists the agent's mouth downward. "You didn't approve of Kate."

"Kate was a mistake."

Peter sits forward slowly, eyebrows drawing together as he sets a firm look on the other man. "Nathan...you didn't know about those explosives on Neal and Kate's plane...?"

Nathan is shaking his head before the question is even fully asked. "I would _never_...risk my brother's life."

The FBI agent can see the truth in the other's eyes. At least some things between them are the same.

"I told him...to leave her." Nathan closes his eyes and sighs. "I told him...she would get him killed...Would get _all _of us killed."

0 o 0 o 0

_Nathan hates new cities. He hates moving and settling in and learning where the nearest cheap Chinese place is. He used to like it. A lot. New cities used to mean new marks, new ventures into economically-favorable activities, new women..._

_He isn't seeing much of any of these things anymore, though. Nathan's condition has taken a turn for the worse, and medically there isn't anything that they can do about it. At least, not without revealing that two Caffreys actually exist. Neal is more than happy to take that chance, but Nathan will have none of it. _

_Besides, they have bigger problems._

"_She's a liability, Neal. I taught you better than this."_

_Neal paces the small apartment as Nathan watches from a chair at the small, two-person table. The place is too small. But they need it to keep up appearances. What would one person do with a two-bedroom apartment, after all? At least Mozzie finally found out about the twins. Nathan has a place to stay when Neal has Kate over. _

"_No, she isn't, Nate," Neal counters simply, giving his brother a tired look. "And I think she needs to know about you."_

"_Absolutely not. If she finds out—" _

"_If she finds out, she won't care!" the other man insists, stopping his pacing and turning to face him. "I trust her." _

"_I know you do..." Nathan takes a swig of water, the cracked mug slipping from his fingers and clattering to the floor. _

_Neal holds up a hand as he starts to bend down to collect it, starting forward himself and picking it up. "You're getting worse, Nathan. We need someone else who can help us." _

"_I don't need a baby-sitter."_

"_I __didn't __mean __that,__" __Neal __says __with __a __sigh, __making __his __way __to __the __kitchen, __placing __the __mug __in __the __sink, __and __grabbing __a __dish __towel __on __his __way __back __in to __the __room. __He __stoops __down __in __front __of __Nathan __and __begins __to __soak __up __the __puddle __of __water __on __the __floor.__ "__I __meant __that __we __need __someone __for __our __cons. __We __can't __do __three-man __cons __with __only __me __and __Moz.__" __He __looks __up __at __his __brother __with __a __slight __quirk __to __his __lips.__ "__And __we __certainly __can't __do __a __three-man __con __with __me, _me_, __and __Moz.__"_

_Nathan shifts his feet, toes inching into the puddle that Neal has yet to sop up. "I like our two-man cons."_

_Standing, Neal tosses the towel towards the clothes hamper, missing it by a good foot or two. "Don't pout."_

"_I don't want her part of this, Neal," Nathan says quietly, looking up at the other man with all the heart-felt brotherly emotion that he can muster. "I think you need to concentrate on this Adler guy."_

_Neal sighs, sitting in the chair across from the other man and rubbing at his face. There are dark circles under his eyes, worry lines written on his forehead and around his mouth as he frowns. "I don't think we can do this without her, Nathan."_

_Nathan sits back heavily and closes his eyes. "Find a way."_

0 o 0 o 0

Peter huffs. "And that was it? He listened to you?"

The other man gives a huff of his own. "Since when has he...ever listened to anyone?"

The agent starts to nod but stills the gesture as a thought occurs. "Nathan," he says, becoming nervous, "what would your brother do to get you a heart?"

Nathan purses his lips and swallows hard. "Peter...What _wouldn't_ he do?"

0 o 0 o 0

"Hey, Moz?"

Neal's voice is strange over the phone. Distant in a way that doesn't count for the _physical _distance between them. Mozzie doesn't like it, and he has a bad feeling that anything Neal says to him in the next few minutes might have to be repeated.

Neal knows how he feels about ratting him out to _the__Suit_.

"Yeah?" Mozzie asks carefully, shifting uneasily and looking around the dark alley outside the hospital. He hates meetings. And this one is rather important. Normally, Neal would trump any sort of importance that was occurring at particular moments such as these.

But this particular moment of importance is kind of all about Neal. So, essentially, Neal's importance is trumping Neal.

"Meet me at my apartment in about an hour, okay?"

_Oh, that doesn't sound good. Not at all. Neal...don't do anything stupid._

"Neal, I don't think—"

"One more thing," Neal interrupts, his words fast and his voice trembling. "When they get here...tell them I'm DNR."

Mozzie's stomach drops out, and the phone nearly slips from his fingers.

"And that I'd like to give my heart to my brother."

AN: Yeah. Didn't plan to end it there. But seems a good place to stop. :) One more chapter, people! Trying to get that happy ending that everyone wants...We'll see, eh? Later, Gators! Catch you all on the flip side.


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Wow. November was my last update? Really? Dang. I am such a fail. Such a freaking fail. The amount of fail that I am is just infinite. But I'm trying! I really am trying. I'm working on my other unfinished fics! Promises! Promises! Check this hand-Oh, wait. Stop that. No...

Just please enjoy this final chapter and put me out of my misery. D: Thank you for all your support! I know it's been a ridiculous ride! And I do hope you like the ending I've set up. It was difficult, but I think I managed one that you will be happy with. :)

My Heart is Fine

Chapter Five:

Jones and Diana stand as Peter rushes into the waiting room, his eyes searching the small space filled with agents wildly.

"Is he here? Did he come through here?" he asks quickly, centering a panicked look on his two go-to team members.

"Caffrey?" Jones asks, his expression grim as Peter nods. "No, we haven't seen him."

"Boss, what's going on?" Diana says quietly, moving in and crossing her arms. It doesn't seem right with just the three of them. Usually Neal is there to complete their little square. This feels incomplete, somehow, like a void has just up and swallowed one of them whole. "What's going on with Neal? You told Jones he was_ leaving_ the hospital?"

Peter sucks in a tight breath, swallows, and opens his mouth to explain. But the shrill ring of his cellphone, made worse by the fact that the waiting room is almost completely silent, interrupts him. He exhales, the gust of air sharp and holding more than a little frustration, before forcefully pressing the answer button and bringing the object to his ear. "Burke," he says curtly.

"Suit."

"Mozzie?" the FBI agent asks incredulously, his eyes searching the waiting room as if the other man might be hiding amongst them. _He probably is._

"Meet me outside."

The call is ended, and Peter is left staring at his phone in confusion.

"Boss?" Diana asks, bringing the man's attention back to the two agents standing before him.

"I have to go," he says absently, putting his phone away and pushing past them.

"What about Neal?" Jones calls, his arms rising and dropping as Peter starts to jog down the corridor.

Peter turns briefly, attempting an awkward sideways shuffle towards the stairs. "Watch him," he says, pointing past them as if gesturing to the man himself. "He's not Neal."

And then he's gone.

0 o 0 o 0

Neal presses his back further into the concrete pillar of the balcony outside his room, closing his eyes and reveling in the feeling. It's chilly, much colder without his suit jacket. But he doesn't want to ruin it, stain it with…well. He doesn't want to think about that—he might lose his nerve.

So he thinks about his brother. His brave, unshakeable brother, who is lying in a hospital bed; dying.

Nathan has been brave his entire life, the first to step forward, and the only one to save Neal's life more times than he can count...barring Peter, of course.

And there's the problem: Peter.

The FBI agent has become much more to him than a _guardian_ over the past couple of years. Hell, over the past couple of _months_. The partnership between them grows every day. And Neal doesn't know what to do with that.

He's never spent so much time in one place—at least not since before their mother died. She'd always believed they would be fine on their own, that they would look after one another. She didn't know about Nathan's condition. They couldn't bear to tell her when he'd started showing symptoms early in their college years. And by the time it had gotten to a point where they wouldn't be able to hide it anymore, she had died. And then they really _were _alone.

Neal doesn't want to be the only Caffrey left. He doesn't want to attend his brother's funeral wearing an ankle bracelet. He doesn't want to have to ask permission to visit his brother's grave with an escort close at his heels.

He doesn't want to be alone.

But Nathan is strong enough. He'll survive without him.

He has to.

0 o 0 o 0

Diana frowns at the man lying in the hospital bed, sharing a look with Jones before stepping forward and crossing her arms. "Burke says you aren't Neal."

Nathan glances between the two of them and smiles weakly. "What does Peter know…huh?"

"A lot," Jones answers without hesitation, eyebrows rising as he crosses his arms as well. "And if he says you aren't Neal, then you aren't Neal."

The young man's smile slips, and he sighs shakily, licking his lips with a dry tongue. "I'm his brother…Nathan."

A long silence steals the room before Diana speaks. "Neal's _brother_?"

"_Twin_ brother," Nathan adds, as if it might not be obvious. From the looks on the agents' faces, he guesses it may _not _be as obvious as he thought. "Did Peter find Neal?"

"He got a call from Mozzie before he left," Jones explains with a shake of his head.

Diana watches the young man carefully. "Why is Burke looking for Neal?" Nathan's fingers restlessly clutch at his hospital blanket as his breath hitches. He looks away. "Why isn't Neal here with you?"

"I don't know."

"I don't believe you," Diana accuses, making her way to the side of the bed and leaning into his line of sight. Jones shifts uncomfortably, his hand habitually inching towards his hip and the holstered gun that rests there. "What's going on, Caffrey?"

The name sounds strange as it rolls off her tongue. She doesn't like the taste of it—not when it's directed at this man. Nathan stares back at her, and, suddenly, she can see the difference. It goes far beyond the physical deterioration. He doesn't look at her the same way Neal does, and the lines around his mouth and eyes are more prominent. Neal's eyes penetrate—Nathan's eyes barely glance the surface.

"Neal…." the young man starts, taking a deep, wheezing breath. "I think…he's going to do…something stupid."

"And how is that news?" Jones asks, an unsettling feeling forming in the pit of his stomach as Nathan's hollow gaze swivels to meet his.

"Because it's…the kind of something stupid…you don't come back from."

Diana's lips purse as she sits beside the young man on the bed. "Nathan…is Neal going to try to get you a heart?"

Nathan shudders as he exhales, his tired face pinching into worry—_fear_. "I think," he says quietly, "he's going to try…to give me _his _heart."

0 o 0 o 0

Peter can't feel.

He knows his knees must be aching because he's been running since traffic caused him to abandon his car nearly five blocks from June's house. He knows his lungs must be on fire because he's out of breath from pushing past strangers, yelling at June's front door, and running up the stairs to Neal's room, taking two or three at a time. And he knows his fists and right shoulder must be throbbing because he's been pounding on this damned locked door for more than five minutes, having to resort to opening it the old-fashioned way.

But he can't feel anything. Because he's broken through the door, he's searched Neal's room frantically, he's screamed his throat hoarse.

And he's found him. Peter almost doesn't see the young man—it's so dark outside. But there he is, on the balcony, propped in the corner like a rag doll.

There's blood. A lot of it. He can smell it from the doorway, thick and coppery.

Before he can even think to pull out his phone, there are sirens from below, loud and intrusive and the sweetest sound Peter has ever heard.

_Thank you, Mozzie_.

He stumbles in his attempt to get to Neal, falls to his knees in the young man's blood and slides to a halt beside him. "Shit," he whispers, his stomach churning when he sees the gaping wound on Neal's left wrist and the long, sloppy lines carved into his right inner forearm. "Neal, what…why…?"

He has no words. His chest still burns, and he doesn't know what to do. Should he check for a pulse? Try and staunch the blood flow? Does it matter? Is there time?

"Pe'er?"

Peter's heart flutters at the weak voice as he meets a dull blue gaze. Neal's chest rises and falls shallowly, his head begins to droop and his eyes start to close.

"_No_!" Peter shouts, finally reaching forward. His hands cup Neal's face—_when did that blood get on his fingers?_—and he shakes hard. "You stay with me! Neal, do you hear me? Stay with me!"

Neal gasps, his eyebrows drawing together as his eyes close fully. "Tired," he breathes sullenly, like he's a child that only wants five more minutes before he has to get up.

"Don't you dare," the FBI agent whispers, hearing hurried footsteps and muffled voices from Neal's room. "Don't you dare give up on me!"

"Nate," the young man says, his eyes cracking open. "Nate…'M s-sorry."

"Not as sorry as you're going to be," Peter mutters as hands descend on him, tugging him away from Neal and pushing him aside.

"Sir, are you injured?" someone asks him, hand steadying him as he sways on his feet.

"No," he answers absently. "No, it's him. It's Neal." Weak fingers, smeared in blood, manage to point in the young man's general direction. "He…" Peter falters, catches his breath and shakes his head. "He wants his heart to go to his brother."

The paramedic either pretends not to hear him or dismisses it as the ramblings of a man in shock, because all he does is nod and lean down to help get Neal on a gurney. The art thief's arm and wrist are wrapped, red splotches already appearing on the bandages. Peter watches as he's taken away, wheeled into the house and out of the room.

June is there, ushering him into Neal's room and murmuring about taking him to the hospital and how everything will be fine, he'll see.

"Okay," he says softly, not quite believing the words.

0 o 0 o 0

Peter is still covered in blood when he gets to the hospital. June had offered him a change of clothes, but he'd wanted to get back as soon as possible. Diana and Jones stand when he enters the waiting room, eyes wide and mouths agape.

"Burke…."

"Boss…."

They speak at the same time, but Peter raises a hand to silence them, seating himself and running a blood-slicked hand through his hair. He tries to pull the room into focus, but all he can see is Neal's pale face, Neal's bloodied arms, Neal's dying eyes.

"Peter?"

The agent is startled from his thoughts as a cool cloth is pressed against his forehead, his vision sharpening so fast he almost becomes dizzy. There is a new face in front of him, a welcome face.

"Elle?"

She breathes a sigh of relief and smiles painfully. "I'm here, honey."

He feels the cloth run down his face, over his hands and wrists. His watch is gone, and his shirt cuffs are unbuttoned. When did that happen? "How did you…?"

Elizabeth's shoulders slump, and she shakes her head. "Mozzie called me," she replies, a bit of a scolding tinting her words. _Why wasn't it _you_? _

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "Things just…happened so fast. I didn't…I don't remember…."

"Shh." Elle smiles again and places a cool hand on his cheek. "It's okay, Peter." Her features tighten slightly. "Can you tell us what happened?" Peter swallows hard, nightmare images flashing behind his eyes. "Is Neal okay?"

He doesn't know how to answer—mainly because he doesn't really _know _the answer, but partly because he doesn't really _want _to know, either.

Instead, he takes a shallow breath, holds it for a moment, and says, "I have to talk to Nathan." He doesn't miss the look shared between Diana and Jones. "What?"

Diana crosses her arms and sighs. "Nathan was taken into surgery just before you got here." She bites the inside of her cheek. "They found him a heart."

The pit of Peter's stomach falls out. "Did they…Did they say whose?"

He's met with silence.

0 o 0 o 0

Nathan wakes.

There's light and warmth and a great sense of relief. And pain. Lots of that as well. But good pain, he thinks—healing pain. He shifts, tethers tugging at his skin and crisp sheets wrinkling beneath him. His body is heavy, and he can feel himself being dragged back below consciousness.

"Nathan?"

It's Peter's voice, hushed and worried and…sad. He grasps at it, uses it as a lifeline to bring himself up and out of this place between _awake _and _asleep_.

"Nathan, are you awake?"

"Pete," he whispers hoarsely, the name thick on his tongue. He tries to swallow, but his throat is full of glue and his jaw is made of rubber. Something cold and wet is pressed against his lips, and he parts them, allowing a small piece of ice to slip under his tongue. It's the most wonderful feeling in the world, he thinks—and he's felt quite a few feelings in his lifetime.

"Peter," he tries again, reverting what little strength he has into opening his eyes. It works…a little. He can see, but his vision is somewhat tunneled. And what he _can _see is hazy, covered in a glassy sheen as if he is watching the world through a dirty window. "Peter, what…?"

The FBI agent sighs, and there is a pressure on Nathan's shoulder, a hand squeezing. "Nathan…They found you a heart."

The young man is stunned into silence. Peter looks unsure about what to do next, but he continues talking. Slowly, as if he's practiced the words.

"You went into surgery a few days ago. You've woken up twice before this. Do you remember?"

Nathan shakes his head, his vocal chords still tight and unresponsive.

Peter nods as if the answer is expected. "You've been under heavy sedation. The doctor thinks your recovery is going a little slower than normal, but as far as your condition had regressed, he says it's possible it may take you longer to get back on your feet."

"Back on my feet," Nathan repeats softly. He hasn't felt like getting back on his feet in _years_. And, suddenly, he can? Suddenly, his world is turned upside-down, and he's going to live? Suddenly, he has this brand new heart? _This…brand new heart?_ "Where's Neal?"

His stomach clenches when Peter doesn't answer right away, and his chest begins to burn as he realizes he is holding his breath. But the other man merely points towards the other side of the room. Nathan's head lolls heavily, and he nearly chokes at the sight that awaits him.

Neal is staring back at him tiredly from his own hospital bed, attempting a smile that isn't quite reaching his eyes. He cautiously lifts a couple of his fingers in a weak gesture of hello, but it only draws Nathan's attention to the bandages wrapped around his wrist.

"Oh, Neal…."

"I'm fine." Neal attempts a dismissal, but Peter's low, dangerous voice prohibits any such thing.

"You are not _fine_." His angry gaze lands on Nathan. "_Neither_ of you are _fine_. And, until further notice, you are both under twenty-four-hour supervision." Neal makes to protest, but Peter jabs a finger in his direction. "No arguments. And another thing—"

Nathan lets the man drone on. He is only able to catch half of the words in his drug-haze state, which he is grateful for. Because when Peter really wants to, he can, in fact, talk people to death.

"—and I don't want to hear another word about it. Am I understood?" the agent finishes, looking between the both of them. Neal huffs in that way that says he's heard the words a thousand times and _still _hasn't grasped the ability to take Peter seriously. Nathan knows that look because he's been on the end of it many times himself.

"Sure, Peter," he croaks, relishing the uncertainty that crosses the man's face. "Whatever you say."

Peter studies him for a long moment before narrowing his eyes. "Okay," he concedes, like he's just made a deal with a ticking time bomb that has promised not to blow up in his face. "I better go get Mozzie. He's been sitting in the waiting room for nearly three hours."

"And he hasn't burst into flames?" Neal asks almost seriously.

"Elle's been keeping him calm," Peter explains with a disgruntled noise. "But I'm not so sure he hasn't tried."

Nathan takes a breath to say something, but stops. Peter watches him expectantly as he takes another breath, deeper this time. "Something smells very…sweet."

The agent sniffs the air and scrunches his nose in distaste. "I smell a hospital."

"It's called _air_," Neal says slowly. "You've been so busy being sick that you haven't noticed it." Nathan rolls his eyes lazily. "It's everywhere, you know."

"He's a bit chattier than usual," Nathan mumbles, turning to the man at his bedside. "Can we turn off his morphine?"

Peter pats his shoulder and leans in conspiratorially. "Not recommended," he replies, "but I'll ask."

Nathan takes advantage of the agent's proximity to thread his fingers into the man's shirt—not that he could physically hold Peter if he stepped away…but the young man is pretty confident that Peter will stay as still as though he is in a death grip. "How…?"

Peter's smile wanes, and he shakes his head. "I don't have all the details." He glances over at Neal. "And I'm not sure I want them…but I have a feeling that Mozzie has some serious connections through the black marketand the medical board." An eyebrow arches on his forehead. "You're both going to have some serious thanking to do in the near future."

Nathan nods absently, releasing Peter and letting his hand fall bonelessly to the bed. Before the agent has even made it out the door, the young man's mood changes drastically. Grim lines form around his mouth as he thins his lips.

"Neal."

"Now, Nathan?"

"Yes."

Neal sighs tiredly and shakes his head. "You were dying. What was I supposed to do?"

"Let me die."

The words are abrupt and lifeless, hanging in the air between them like something stagnant and rotting.

"You're my brother," Neal protests quietly.

"And you're _my _brother," Nathan argues as sternly as he can muster. He looks away, closes his eyes. Breathes. "Neal, if you _ever_…." He swallows. "If you ever do something like that again…."

"You'll kill me?" the other asks, an attempted humor in his voice.

Nathan does not laugh. "For just a second, I thought you were dead," he says, anger and fear shaking in his weak fists. "Time slowed down, and I could see myself._ Living_. Living a long life without you and knowing you were dead because of me. And every heartbeat, Neal…." He clenches his jaw, willing the prickling behind his eyes and in the back of his throat to subside. "Every heartbeat hurt. Because it reminded me of you."

Neal has the decency to look ashamed. "I'm sorry."

"No, you're not," Nathan says with a bitter laugh. "If you were, you wouldn't have tried to kill yourself in the first place."

"Nate, that doesn't make any sense."

He doesn't know if it does or not. Maybe the meds being flushed through his body are making him spout nonsense. Maybe Neal is just trying to change the subject. Either way, Nathan is very, _very _tired, and he doesn't want to talk about any of this anymore.

"Just promise me," he says, quietly enough that Neal has to hold his breath to hear him. "Promise me no more stupid stunts like this."

Neal swallows and lets his head drop back against his pillow. "Only if you promise the same."

"You first."

"Fine," Neal concedes, turning his head to look at the other man and raising his bandaged arm to make an _x _over his heart with one finger. "I promise. No more stupid things."

"Good," Nathan says, one corner of his mouth quirking, "and I promise to stay around long enough to keep you from _doing_ stupid things."

Neal returns the smirk with a full grin. "I can live with that."

AN: Ahhh-The end! Finally! Gosh.

Later, Gators! Catch you all on the flip side.


End file.
